Taking Care of Business
by vanillafluffy
Summary: In the aftermath of the massacre at the Gomez hacienda, a cartelista is caught between the traitors in his own organization and the group that wiped out his friends. Can he trust an offer made by a man named Sands? Follow up to Clockwork Mexico. COMPLETE!
1. New Business

**Things you, the Reader, should know:  
**Sands pops in for a couple of chapters, but this _**-isn't- **_a Sands story. (Are we clear on that point?)

Thanks are due Robert Rodriguez - we all know he's the real genius here - a bunch of bananas to Kerttu for inspiration, and a bottle of tequila to Mojave Dragonfly for beta'ing (any mistakes are my own blonde fault), and a slice of carrot cake to the Plot Bunny with a Spanish accent who started whispering in my ear a while back.

This story is a follow-up of sorts to **Clockwork Mexico**. Even while I was still writing its predecessor, I knew the truth about the kid in the limo, and that the sequel would start with the Gomez brothers questioning the old lady. Lisiado came in later, after schmoozing with Kerttu about...well, that would give too much away! This begins the night after the raid on the Gomez hacienda in Culiacan. (The opening scene here occurs at the same time that El and Kate are out dancing.) It isn't _necessary _to have read the previous story, but I assure you, if you do, you'll have a much better idea of what's really going on than my protagonist here does.

**Enjoyreview.**

**

* * *

**

**Taking Care of Business**

**Prologue:**

Twelve years ago.

As soon as the dark stranger had departed, Dolores crouched in the dust, cradling her lover's body. Blood still trickled from the terrible wounds the man's guns had inflicted upon him, warm and sticky on her hands. His linen shirt, pristine moments ago, was crimson, the stains spreading. Scarlet bubbles formed on his chest.

She was only a plaything to him, she knew that, but he meant the world to her. He was not always kind, but she responded to his air of command, to the vitality he exuded. His intimate smiles melted her heart. Even like this, robbed of his power, of his very life's blood, she marveled at his strong features. Tears trickled down her face, one of them landing on the his cheek. His lips parted, trembled. Dolores felt a wild hope. Could it be that he still lived, that he might survive to be her own true love?

Purposefully, she rose and found one of the vehicles that had a key in it. She would take him to Papa, to safety, she would make him well, she would make him hers.

* * *

1. / New Business 

Lisiado wishes they'd hold this interview out on the terrace, so he could smoke - though he knows that's bad for his damaged lungs. The old woman would be less anxious. But no, this is serious business to the Gomez brothers, so of course, they want to confer in their father's office, which for so many years was off-limits to them.

"Tell us what happened, Philomena," demands the senior brother. "Who did this? Who killed our brother?"

The old woman twists a handkerchief in her arthritic hands. "I don't know, Señor Ernesto. There were two of them that I saw, a man and a woman."

"Two people? You expect me to believe that two people killed Eduardo and dozens of our workers? Father will be livid when he hears of this!"

Yes, thinks Lisiado, his father-in-law will be furious at the news of a second strike at their Culiacan base. It took six months to clean up after the first raid, and now not only has that progress been cancelled, but he's lost his middle son as well. A father himself, Lisiado feels sympathy for the patriarch, although he really won't miss Eduardo.

"Calm yourself, Ernesto. She said that she saw two people. There may have been a dozen that she didn't see." The youngest brother rests a hand on Philomena's shoulder. "Tia, did you get a close look at them?"

"He said to me, 'We are here to hurt bad people, not grandmothers'," the elderly woman quavers. "Bad people! What does a man like that think _he _is?"

"Did you see the man, Philomena?"

"Si, Señor Esteban. He was very tall. Not young, not old, clean shaven...I would know him again."

"And the woman?" Ernesto Gomez interrupts. "What about her?"

"I saw that it was a woman, and her hair was light..." Philomena shakes her head. "I only had a glimpse before he shut me in the pantry."

A fair-haired woman? Lisiado is reminded of the fax from Eduardo he'd intercepted on the previous day. He had a woman prisoner, who he'd thought was CIA. He'd faxed a copy of her passport, but the picture was a blurred smudge. Only the name and personal information had come through clearly, and the man called Lisiado knows well that names mean nothing.

"Get Marisol," commands Ernesto with barely a glance at his father's advisor. He expects obedience, and Lisiado complies, but he won't make anything easier for Ernesto than he has to. Since Nestor's incarceration, his elder sons have been keeping information from him, so he feels no remorse about returning the favor, as with the fax this one still hasn't seen.

"The poor, poor girl," Philomena moans as Lisiado moves toward the door. "To see her poor father like that-! He was lying in the road, Señor Ernesto, with one of my good knives sticking out of him. It was terrible!" That doesn't sound like CIA; possibly rivals who had seized their prisoner during the raid?

Lisiado limps to the kitchen where the girl sits watching his wife chop vegetables. Marisol wears one of Dolores's old dresses, which gives her the look of a child playing dress up. "Come along," he says to her. "Your uncle wants to talk to you."

She follows him into the office and goes to stand in front of Ernesto's desk. "They killed Papa," she says, her voice shaking. "He put me into the limo and said he would make them follow him so I could get away safely. And Tomas started to drive away, and then the car stopped, and somebody opened the door, and it was her."

"What did she look like, Marisol?" asks Esteban.

"She was a devil! I thought she was going to shoot me with her gun, but Papa drove past and they went after him, and, and--"

"What did she look like?" prods Esteban. "You must have seen something besides her gun."

The teenager chews her lip. "Blonde hair, short and fluffy. Mean-looking. And it really was a great big gun!"

"You said 'they' went after him," growls Ernesto. "Did you see the man at all?"

Marisol frowns in concentration. "No. A man. Wearing a black jacket, and--" She shakes her head. "I just saw it was a man. He followed the woman to the garage, and they took Papa's silver car and drove off in it."

"And you didn't see anyone else?"

"No. But - there was another car! It was a jeep, it followed them after Papa. I didn't see how many people were in it, though. What are we going to do?" Marisol Fuentes-Gomez demands. "They killed Papa! She killed him! I know she did!"

Ernesto Gomez holds up a hand for silence. "The matter must be investigated. If nothing else, we must recover our business records from the hacienda and see to it that poor Eduardo is properly laid to rest. Esteban, return to Culiacan and bring our brother home. Recover everything you can from the hacienda. See what you can find out about these interlopers."

With their father Nestor currently in prison, Ernesto is the acting head of their family's empire, and Lisiado knows he is not above consolidating his position. "Take Lisiado and Philomena with you." Ah, thinks Lisiado impassively, he is right. Send the other heir to the throne into harm's way with only a housekeeper and a lame old man for protection. Chalk it up to 'duty to the family interests'.

"What about me?" asks Marisol. "I'd know her! I'd know her anywhere!"

"No, you're safer here," Ernesto is dismissive.

"I don't care! She killed Papa!" Lisiado watches, bored, as the girl whines and predictably, gets her way. Ernesto has to make it look convincing, and he does. The middle brother's offspring won't survive him long if Tio Ernesto has his way.

When Marisol and Philomena have gone, Ernesto begins instructing Lisiado on buttoning up the complex at Culiacan. Ernesto has been curt with him before this evening, but tonight his tone is especially offensive. Lisiado stands there silently, listening to his orders. How dare this punk talk to him this way? As if Lisiado is some young fool who's never taken care of business before, instead of being ten years his senior and once at the head of an operation that rivaled Nestor's in its day. I've crapped bigger than you, boy, he thinks, his jaw clenched. His chest feels tight, and he knows if this continues for much longer, he'll start to wheeze from stress.

Eduardo may be dead, but Ernesto isn't the head of the family yet. It's obvious that he wants it - he's sitting here in his father's chair at his father's desk in his father's private office - and you can see him trying it on for size. Lisiado, who has spent more time in this room than both the surviving brothers combined, wishes he was sitting at the table by the window playing backgammon with Nestor, rather than trying to appease his power-hungry son.

Lisiado could tell the young fool how easy it is to take power and how much more difficult it is to hold it, but he'll learn. Lisiado will do his very best to see to it.


	2. Bordello Business

2. / Bordello Business

The bedroom is done in early Brazilian bordello - leopard print sheets on the bed, baskets of orchids hanging everywhere. His own tastes are more ascetic, but it makes Dolores happy, so Lisiado indulges her. It's part of her flair for the dramatic; when they first met, she'd been playing at being a lounge singer. It wasn't until later - much later! - he'd learned she was the stepdaughter of his rival. He'd used her for his own whims, and she'd repaid him by saving his life...

Dolores wants to go with them to Culiacan, but Lisiado is firm. She must remain in Guadalajara; Ernesto expects his comforts, and won't be pleased if their housekeeper deserts him. "But I will take Ché," he says, as she sits brushing out her long rosewood hair before bed. His wife is still a lovely woman at forty; the act of achieving motherhood may have softened her a bit, but she still looks good in the lacy lingerie she knows he likes. "Don't worry," he soothes her. "Marisol and Philomena are going, too. He'll be fine. It's only for a few days." She is unconvinced, so he distracts her with a kiss. A series of kisses, until she is giggling and pliant.

"I'll miss you so much," sighs Dolores, snuggling against him. He puts his arms around her, stroking her flowing hair. As a younger man, he was cut from much the same ruthless pattern as Ernesto Gomez, neither considerate nor loving, and her continued devotion is a marvel to him. He can think of nothing he has done that should inspire such a thing. What can account for her adoration of him?

Inwardly, Lisiado sighs. He's a little surprised she's given in so easily - Dolores is a wildcat when it comes to her mate and cub. Smother love, he thinks of it sometimes, but he'll never say it to her. It has served him too well.

After so many years, he knows what gives Dolores pleasure. As he makes love to her for what may be the last time, it's difficult not to dwell on the past. "My sweet little songbird," he murmurs, nuzzling her neck.

Dolores is a wild woman tonight. It isn't until she begins groaning loudly - much more loudly than usual, that he realizes he isn't being as tender with her as is his habit. No, he's rough, still nursing seething resentment of Ernesto. Oh, how he'd like to grab that whelp by the throat and bitch-slap him until his sneering face is a swollen mess. Kick his ribs until they splinter, til he can't even breathe to beg for mercy. Cause him so much pain that he'll do more than respect Lisiado, he'll worship at his feet just to be put out of his misery...grovel...wretched...the thought of Ernesto, completely humiliated and moaning brings him sweet release.

His wife cradles his head against her bosom, stroking his salt-and-pepper curls and crooning to him. "You _will _miss me," she purrs, sounding pleased. "That was...mmm." She gives a satisfied little mew and yawns. Gradually, her tender hands grow still, the rise and fall of her chest growing slow and regular as she drifts into slumber. He _will _miss her - she brings a peace to his life that he's never known before.

Dolores saved his life, there's no doubt of that. She brought him, near death, to the Gomez compound. It was only then that he learned her true identity. Nestor took him in. Lisiado is alive only because his woman cared for him, and because her stepfather could afford the best doctors and was willing to pay for his resurrection. The months she spent tending him round the clock through one crisis after another...multiple gunshot wounds, both lungs collapsed, shock, pneumonia setting in - he went from being a strong, confident man in his mid-thirties, to a wheezing, limping old man in a single afternoon. When he was recovered enough to offer his chagrined fealty to the other man, Gomez accepted his pledge of service and said no more about their years of acrimony. His only condition was that Lisiado marry Dolores, "to make an honest woman of her". And in return, he has a place. He is family, not to be sold out to the other cartels, or the Federales, or worst of all, the Colombians, who think him dead. Or so it was until Nestor's absence.

More old memories come back in the night. _Sleep has become difficult, lately, broken by exciting, disturbing thoughts. He is fourteen, his voice cracking like a young rooster first learning to crow. He lies in bed, thinking of Barbara who works in her father's pharmacia, when the door to the bedroom swings inward, and his mother stands there. She walks into the room without turning on the light. She beckons him to get up with an impatient gesture, and he slides out from under the sheet, moving quietly so as not to wake his younger brother. The eight-year old is curled up on his side of the bed, fast asleep, and the boy, now grown to a man called Lisiado, knows he will never see that expression of innocence again. When he takes in the two battered suitcases in the hallway, he stops and looks at her, but his mother's glare is fierce. A snore issues from the other bedroom: Father, for once at home and sleeping in his own bed. What will he do when he finds out his wife and oldest son are gone, leaving him with the baby of the family to raise? _Lisiado doesn't know; he never had the opportunity to ask the question of either of them...

That night happened more than thirty years ago, and repeats several times a month, more often in the last few years, now that Lisiado has a son of his own. He thanks Dolores even more for the gift of Ché than for saving his life. Lisiado and Dolores have a roof over their heads...and Ché. During the year after their arrival, Dolores gave him the news. At the time, he didn't much care that his wife was pregnant - their marriage seemed as much corporate merger as romance - though he was properly deferential to her 'delicate condition'. Perhaps a baby to love would make her a little less zealous about her passion for him. Sight of his son, wailing and vigorous in the doctor's hands, changed his life between one heartbeat and the next. His family...his blood. That which he long dismissed as 'too complicated' has proven to be as necessary as breathing...and after what Lisiado has survived, he knows that that, too, is not something to be taken lightly.

Ché is the hope of his heart. There were complications during delivery; he is the only child they will ever have. Lisiado often feels unworthy of tending such a pure, trusting soul. Staring into the abyss of death during his lingering recovery left him with no illusions about what kind of man he has been. He has resolved to redeem himself and steer a course less fraught with hatred during his remaining years, to raise his son to be a better man than himself.

He will bring Ché with him to Culiacan because he will not give his son over to Dolores's keeping in case he should not return. Better that his blood die with him than to loose another fatherless boy upon the world, or another boy admiring the wrong father-figure. The thought wrenches his heart. If only there was another way, someone he could send him to, and keep him safe. But no, there's no one. Even his little brother is dead now.

Esteban doesn't seem to have figured out the danger he's in yet, although after the women left the office, he'd questioned his brother about why he couldn't have more of an entourage. Ernesto had plausible reasons, and Esteban seems to be placated. How could he grow up so innocent in such a family, the older man wonders.

Restless, Lisiado gets out of bed, careful not to awaken Dolores. Ché's room is just down the hall, and the boy looks content. What do ten-year old boys dream about? The middle-aged man no longer remembers, but the past has written itself on his child's face: Ché bears a painful resemblance to his lost uncle.

Shying away from the memory of their one bitter confrontation as adults, Lisiado's deepest regret is that he will never be able to reconcile with his brother. He and his family died at the hands of an evil-doer years ago, and he doubts they will be reunited in the hereafter. His own destination, he expects, will be much warmer.

Ché smiles at some dreaming, and his father watches him, wondering what the boy's future will be. If Nestor survives prison, and the treachery of his new heir-apparent, Lisiado is promised an education for the boy. The child delights in tinkering with model robots - brightly colored plastic contraptions with names like 'Transformer' or 'Bionicle'. He puts pieces of things into other things--he somehow fixed his mother's broken toaster, which no longer ejected toast, with parts from a video player that died after a power surge. Where this unlikely talent came from, his father has no idea, but it points the way to an honest living for him someday.


	3. Wretched Business

3. / Wretched Business

Two vehicles bump along the dirt road to the compound near Culiacan. Lisiado drives the sedan, Esteban Gomez sitting beside him looking more anxious by the kilometer. The work truck, driven by Philomena, with Marisol and Ché in the back, follows them.

Lisiado slows at the sight of the car sitting in the middle of the road. Eduardo's scarlet Ferrari has been abandoned there, the red lacquer of the hood discolored by a coolant leak. He pulls past it and stops, gets out to examine it more closely. Philomena parks the truck behind him and gets out. The youngsters hop out. Ché darts over to his father, following a few paces behind him, looking at everything Lisiado looks at and mimicking his reactions with a solemn face. There is a bullethole, only one, just behind the wheelwell on the driver's side. Judging by the angle of the car on the road, it spun out when the bullet hit it.

"He was over here, Señor Lisiado," says Philomena, pointing. "We took him back to the hacienda. It didn't seem right to leave him here." Marisol stands beside the truck, tears running down her cheeks. She stares at the dusty ground as if her father is still lying there. She manages to look heart-broken and blood-thirsty at the same time, which is quite a feat.

The blood-stained ground isn't far from the car. He was pursued; the assassins, whoever they were, managed to catch up and disable the Ferrari. Probably went around him when the car stopped. Eduardo would have gotten out of the car - no use being a sitting duck, the damned thing wasn't armor-plated, after all - and in the ensuing struggle, had been stabbed to death. Had he taken the knife from the kitchen on the way out to the garage? Or had one of Philomena's mysterious intruders brought it along for some reason?

The scene at the hacienda is horrific; the reek of death and the buzzing of flies is worse than anything he's envisioned. Almost, he wishes he hadn't brought Ché, or that he'd had the foresight to suggest Philomena stay in town with the children until he gave the go-ahead. He curtly orders them to stay in the truck as he tours the grounds with Esteban, who begins puking almost at once.

The limousine has fish-tailed onto the front walk - the tire marks streaking the white granite - and Tomas is slumped over the steering wheel with half his skull gone. God, they're everywhere, inside and out, some of them men he's known for as long as he's been with Gomez...what's left of them. Before fleeing to Guadalajara, Philomena and Marisol placed Eduardo into one of the chest freezers. Thankfully, the generators are still working, so at least what they've been sent to retrieve is intact.

Two people, Philomena said? Impossible. Lisiado looks around at the carnage and shakes his head. Ten men in the house alone, and at least four of them he knows were tough fighters. Felix lies out near the workers' quarters, his head dented like an eggshell. Out back, in the infirmary, Danny has a tight cluster of bullet wounds in his chest. There is no sign of the purported prisoner, but on the floor lies a shock collar, as if discarded, while the remote rests on a countertop. It would seem, if there was a prisoner, that the invaders took her. Was she one of them, or was she the CIA operative Eduardo believed her?

"Jesus, Lisiado, what are we going to _do_?" asks Esteban. He's pale, shaking slightly; today is surely the first time he's ever seen a body that wasn't laid out in a casket, let alone wholesale carnage like this.

"A mass grave for the others," he says, determined not to let his friends rot. "There's some heavy machinery they used to clear away the buildings that were destroyed in the fire last December. It's the decent thing to do," he says at Esteban's half-formed protest. "No, it's not going to be easy, it's not going to be pleasant, but I am going to do it, and you are going to help me." Since Lisiado is, technically, old enough to be the boy's father, Esteban accepts his judgement with a wince and a nod.

"First, you and I need to get the bodies out of the house so Philomena and the children can come in. I saw a wheeled table in one of the outbuildings. We can use that to move them."

There are another dozen men crumpled in and around the garage, the labs, the workshops. Lisiado is in shock, and Esteban fell behind a while ago. More than two dozen good people, dead, and for what? For another cartel to steal a prize? To put the Gomezes out of business? It wasn't the CIA, he knows that much. They would still be occupying the place, collecting evidence; Philomena and Marisol would be in custody.

All he can do is what he must: bury the dead and bring Eduardo home. The infirmary becomes a morgue. He and Esteban shuttle bodies back there for nearly an hour, retching, gagging, but doing their grim duty nonetheless. Philomena puts the children to work cleaning. Ché does as he is told, his round face screwed up with disgust. Marisol tries to get out of it, but surprisingly, Esteban is stern with her. She wanted to come? Then she must work as the rest of them are working. She is no princess to sit in her room and paint her nails while the rest of them slave. By the time the two men leave the house to gather up the bodies around the perimeter, Philomena has organized cleaning supplies and has the children saying the rosary with her.

The bodies that were outside are even worse than the ones from the house. Lisiado and Esteban both have repeated dry heaves at the corpses, most of which show signs of having been scavenged by animals. "There's diesel fuel," suggests Esteban, looking at a pitiful tangle that was once a man named Rogelio. "We could burn them..."

Lisiado shakes his head. Rogelio still owed him money from their last poker game. A trifling amount - they'd laughed about it, since Rogelio so rarely lost a bet. "I'll win it back from you later," he'd joked, but this was no man's idea of victory. "If we burn them," he says with careful patience to the young man, "there will be smoke. Outsiders will know someone is here. Do you want the people who did this to come back?"

Esteban is horrified. "No, of course not! You're right, I wasn't thinking, I just thought it would be faster..."

"There's still some risk in using the backhoe," sighs Lisiado, "but even I am not willing to dig such a grave by hand."

By late afternoon, all the bodies are in the "morgue". Esteban is scouring the hacienda for all confidential information, while Lisiado has found a blueprint of the compound and studies it, trying to decide the best location for the burial site. In the event that his employer wishes to revive this thrice-cursed operation - it has been raided twice within the past half year and its former occupant, Señor Barillo, was also brought down violently, allowing for their take-over - it must not interfere with the wells, or the drainage field for the septic system. It should, ideally, not be too far from the improvised morgue; this chore is painful enough as it is.

The kitchen is tolerably clean and odor-free by the time Philomena calls them to supper. None of them has much appetite, even Ché, who his father has always jokingly accused of having a hollow leg. Esteban's having a hard time swallowing; probably thinking of the body they carried out of here, its face black. Someone smashed the man's windpipe and let him choke to death, right over there by the laundry room...

He's taken the precaution of throwing the breakers on everything at sundown - except the freezer. The less obvious it is that they are occupying the hacienda, the less chance of having unwelcome company. Lisiado doesn't trust Marisol not to disobey and turn on the lights, or one of the others, including himself, to forget out of habit. He and Esteban will take turns standing guard, for what good that will do. Two men against a force that slaughtered two dozen? It's going to be a long night.

Numerous guns were scattered around the bodies. Lisiado collected them during the clean-up, and now checks each of them for ammo. How long has it been since he made a habit of carrying a gun? Oh, he practices enough to be able to hit a target, but targets don't shoot back. Targets hold still while you ready your weapon.

"You can shoot, can't you?" he asks Esteban, wishing there was time for a practice session.

"We had those contests on Sunday afternoons, remember?" Of course, he remembers, now that he thinks of it. How can he forget the memory of Dolores, eight-and-a-half months pregnant with Ché sneezing so hard from cordite fumes that she wet herself? She'd made a nice grouping in the center of the target, though. Eduardo and Ernesto stopped laughing about her accident when she demanded her winnings before going to change. After Ché was born, they'd gotten out of the habit - after all shooting was a noisy business, and Nestor didn't want to disturb his youngest grandchild's sleep.

"Good. Take this, Esteban. It's loaded - and for god's sake, make sure you know who you're shooting at."


	4. Monkey Business

4. / Monkey Business

After dinner, Lisiado does a sweep of the house and grounds as twilight descends. He's edgy, rightly so, he thinks. Many men died here two nights ago. He doesn't believe in ghosts - he's far more concerned by the possibility of another incursion.

Although Philomena has worked tirelessly and employed her young helpers to good purpose, there are still stains and bulletholes which can't be eradicated so easily, and two days of unventilated corpses have left a gamy odor downstairs. Upstairs is less severe. The bedrooms are tolerable...with the windows open. As he's prowling through the upstairs, he hears Marisol's voice and sees a light coming through her half-open bedroom door. "It's not fair - you've still got both your parents, and I don't have anyone but my stupid uncles. War."

"One, two, three - ha! Mine!" Ché laughs in triumph. "Maybe we could adopt you, or something. My mom likes you."

"I don't even remember my mother, except from pictures. She was pretty. Someday, I'm going to look like her." Lisiado stands in the hallway listening. Yolanda Fuentes had been magnificent; he hopes if Marisol turns out as good-looking, she'll be smart enough not to carry on an affair under her jealous husband's nose.

"I don't think I ever saw her," says Ché doubtfully. No, thinks his father. Dolores was still pregnant with you when all that went down. He remembers his wife vomiting into the sink after seeing Yolanda with her skull caved-in from the beating Eduardo gave her. Lisiado helped dig the unmarked grave for her unfortunate lover. Officially, Yolanda's death resulted from a fall off a horse, and the...trespasser...simply disappeared.

"I'm gonna look like _that_." Does Marisol have a picture of her mother? Lisiado hardly remembers what the woman looked like anymore, aside from a mental label, "Much Too Beautiful For Her Own Good".

"You? Nah, you're too skinny."

"Not for long!" Marisol sounds triumphant. "Of course, _you're _just a kid."

"Besides, she's prettier than you are."

As he enters the room, he sees the flashlight propped up so the mirrored closet doors will amplify its light, and the kids lying on the wall-to-wall shag carpet playing cards. Then he gets close enough to recognize the cards they're playing with, and he frowns. "Where did you get those?" he demands. The children are silent. It's Rogelio's deck, the one with the naked women on it. One or the other of them has been snooping through the worker's quarters. He confiscates the cards, ignoring their protests. "I'll find you another deck of cards tomorrow," he promises, stuffing the deck into his shirt pocket. "Play tic-tac-toe or something."

Going back downstairs, he smiles a little. Kids! He sticks his head into the office off the service corridor where Esteban is doing something on the computer. He must've thrown the switch for the room. "Don't forget to turn that off when you're done," Lisiado cautions him.

"I know," says Esteban. "And I made sure the blinds and the curtains are pulled so the light won't show."

"Okay, I'll be outside." He's tempted to grab one of the Havana cigars from the humidor on Eduardo's desk in the library. Dolores isn't here to scold him for doing damage to his abused lungs...no, there's no Nestor to play backgammon with, and his chest already hurts from the exertion of repeated vomiting and moving bodies. Better for him to get some fresh air and take another quick look around before turning in.

Seating himself on one of the low walls of the terrace, Lisiado fans through the deck. The Three of Hearts has always reminded him of Dolores, except that Three's hair is curlier. As he's thinking that, his cell phone chirps. "Buenas tardes."

"I miss you, sweetheart," says Dolores.

"Ah! I was just thinking of you, too," he answers honestly. "What are you doing?"

"Tidying up the kitchen after supper. Is everything okay there? You had a safe trip?" He's a stone's throw away from a building filled with dead bodies. That doesn't meet his criteria for 'okay', but Dolores doesn't need to know about any of that. She'd have a fit about what her darling baby boy is being exposed to...his grin widens a little more as he glances down at the cards.

"We're fine, no problems. It's good to hear your voice, my little songbird." He pictures her going through her usual evening routine in the big kitchen, wearing nothing more than a scrap of lingerie. The image helps loosen the tension in his chest. Not that she usually dresses sexy outside the bedroom; she's probably wearing one of her practical cotton shifts. She saves her satin and lace for intimate occasions.

"It's not the same here without you," she laments. "Ernesto's been in a very funny mood."

"Oh?" He tucks away the fifty-two señoritas and rises from his perch, stretching. "What kind of mood?" He begins strolling toward the garage as she tells him.

"He's been pacing in his office all day, and every time the phone rings, he grabs it."

That doesn't sound like Ernesto, who usually has Ramirez acting as his lieutenant. "What about Ramirez?" Lisiado is reasonably sure she's in no danger from Ernesto. Dolores has no cause to fear her half-brother. It isn't as if she's ever taken any interest in the running of the organization, she's always been perfectly content to keep house and nothing more.

"He's been gone all day. He just got back a little while ago."

From which Lisiado infers that Ramirez has been setting something up. "I'm glad you called," he tells Dolores. Could Ernesto be planning action against Esteban? Perhaps the Gomez who would be king is not content to wait and see if the invaders return to the compound. He makes sure the garage doors are closed, that their vehicles are out of sight...although the fact that there are no longer any corpses littering the grounds are a tip-off that someone's been here.

"I'm going to be so lonely tonight," she purrs. In his mind's eye, she's lounging on the leopard-print sheets in the Brazilian bordello, red-brown hair tumbling down over her breasts, a pose not unlike Three of Hearts, but more enticing...his lovely wife. He hopes she isn't on the verge of being his lovely widow.


	5. Unfinished Business

5. / Unfinished Business

Prowling around the grounds in the pre-dawn hours - Esteban being a young night owl takes the first watch - Lisiado notices several things aren't right, and the conclusions he comes to are disturbing indeed. There are two vehicles unaccounted for besides Eduardo's silver car, which, according to Marisol, was stolen by the intruders. A sedan and one of the war wagons are gone. Somebody, years ago, had christened the modified pick-up trucks 'war wagons', and the name stuck. Turning the breaker back on, he compares a census of the bodies against the payroll records on the house computer, and realizes a dozen men are missing from the rolls of the dead.

That leaves the matter of the second vehicle Marisol saw pull out behind her "mean-looking" blonde. Had it really been a jeep, or was it the missing war wagon? Who was the 'Catherine Ann Martin' referred to in Eduardo's last fax? Was she CIA, like Eduardo thought? His killer, as Marisol was convinced? One of Ernesto's co-conspirators? And what about Philomena's gallant rescuer? A stranger, a hired killer, wouldn't give a damn about one old woman - but if he knew her, wouldn't she have recognized him? Is she being truthful, or protecting someone she likes - one of the missing men who was stationed here?

Could Ernesto have staged the raid with the help of some turncoats? Arranged his brother's death to seize more power? The thought of a coup has crossed his mind before this, but now there's some evidence to support it. Perhaps that was what Ramirez was away arranging. Those dozen men could be out there right now, awaiting their cue to sweep down and kill them all, to secure the dynasty that Ernesto envisions for himself.

The questions are endless, but fortunately, the night is not. By daylight, Lisiado has determined to go into Culiacan. He and Esteban should have protective wear if they're going to be handling decaying bodies. Philomena gives him a list of cleaning supplies she needs. He refuses both children the trip to town. He can't show favoritism to Ché, or Marisol will bedevil them all. He isn't sure how much of her litany of complaints is bratishness and how much stems from bereavement, but he has no patience for it today. There is also the matter of something he has promised himself, something that the youngsters don't need to see. Explaining it to Esteban will be difficult enough.

For a price, almost anything can be had on the black market. Although not familiar with Culiacan in particular, Lisiado has been trading in the shadows for over thirty years. Finding what they need takes a bit longer than it would have in Guadalajara, where he is known, but by noon, they have two special suits which the individual at one of Culiacan's funeral parlors swears will protect them from everything except bullets and radiation.

They have tacos in town; the thought of another meal in the charnel-house atmosphere of the hacienda appeals to neither of them, and as Lisiado has expected, Esteban is in no rush to return. Let them digest for a while first.

Although he'd hoped the youngest Gomez brother would be content to browse among the shops in the central plaza, he stays close to Lisiado as the older man makes his way to the cathedral. It is an impressive structure. He doesn't really expect to be struck by lightning for passing through the church's doors, and he isn't. It's been years since he last entered such a portal, not since his wedding - no, since the christening Dolores insisted upon for Ché. It takes him a moment to orient himself.

Finding the alcove he's looking for, he lights a candle and kneels to pray for the dead. All the dead. Those newly departed, and those who have reached their eternal reward long before. Some of them, he wishes a peaceful rest.

When Lisiado's watch shows that the siesta hour is well advanced, and the grand cathedral slumbers with the rest of Culiacan, he exits quietly through one of the side doors into the churchyard. He knows what he is looking for. It will be a newer grave, and not enclosed by the ironwork tracery that marks the boundary of the graveyard. Ahh! He locates it just as Esteban catches up to him.

"What are you doing? You can't do that!" the young man objects as he urinates on the headstone.

"Look around you, this isn't holy ground." It is the only revenge he can take on his brother's murderer. "I'd like to meet the man who put him down there. I'd shake his hand and buy him a drink."

Esteban stares at him as he rearranges his clothing. "Who the hell is General Emiliano Marquez, and why are you pissing on his grave?"

"It is my sincere hope that every stray dog in Culiacan will follow my lead," says the older man, eyeing the slab with distaste.

"But it's disrespectful!" Esteban says, wide-eyed.

"Oh?" He takes a step closer to the youth. "And if that was the man who killed Eduardo, would you not do the same thing?"

That silences him. The youngest Gomez looks at the still-dripping marker and meets Lisiado's waiting gaze. "I might," he agrees.

"Do you know why you're here?" Lisiado asks him suddenly. "Why Ernesto only sent the two of us?"

"Because the shipment from Bogota -"

"No. That has nothing to do with it, it just sounds good. We're expendable to him. If you are killed, he becomes the king of the castle. That's why he sent Marisol - she's Eduardo's heir. You think Ernesto wants to share the profits with her someday?" Lisiado shakes his head. "Philomena is an old woman, he doesn't give a damn if she lives or dies, and he sent me because he knows I am your father's man, not his man. Your father will be in prison for years. He's not young anymore; there's no guarantee he'll survive. But meanwhile, your brother is afraid I'll tell about the business he's doing that Nestor would forbid."

There is no protest; Esteban has only to think of what he knows of his brother's nature. "You're sure?" he asks half-heartedly.

Lisiado nods. "You're not a boy anymore, Esteban. Your brother sees you as competition, not as his kid brother. You've got to start watching your back."

"But...you brought Ché! How could you bring your son if you thought there was going to be trouble?"

"Do you think I want my son raised by your brother and his lackeys? By whichever thug decides Dolores is fair game after I'm gone? Before I'd let that happen, I'd spill Ché's blood with my own hands."

Esteban stares at him, stricken. Lisiado feels a twinge of compassion for the young man. He is the odd-man-out in his family, being so much younger than his brothers. "Perhaps nothing will happen. No one's come poking around, we may be able to bury our dead and get out with no trouble at all. If we can manage to scoop out a hole with that backhoe - I've never used one before, have you? - then maybe we can be out of here tomorrow or the day after."

"Do you really believe that?"

The advisor shrugs. "Prepare for the worst. Hope for the best. Let's get back. I'm through here."


	6. Unholy Business

6. / Unholy Business

When they return to the compound, Lisiado retrieves the site plans and suggests to Esteban that they look over the place he's proposed for the mass grave. Just as well, the senior man thinks a short while later. Nothing on the map indicates contours, and what looks like available space is, in fact, a steeply sloping hillside. Fortunately, there are still hours of daylight left in which to find a more suitable location.

Ché accompanies the two men, running back and forth. The nature of their errand doesn't seem to touch him, or perhaps he's just happy to get out of the house and away from Marisol's carping. Ché has not complained at all, and Lisiado is proud of his son.

"Papa! Papa! Come here, look!" shouts the boy, and his father picks up his pace to see what the excitement is for. They are on the far side of the garage, where there was a fueling depot before the December raid. Now there are several acres of level space in which spring grasses and wildflowers have sprouted.

"Here, Papa!" says the boy firmly. "This is a good place to rest. There's lots of space and the flowers will cover them and it's nice and quiet."

Lisiado is humbled. His son does understand the task at hand, and his solution is both practical and beautiful. It won't disturb the wells or the plumbing. Yes, it is a bit farther than from the morgue than he'd hoped, but this _is _a good place in which to rest.

Esteban nods. He's been quiet since their talk outside the cathedral. A lot for him to think about. Lisiado remembers him as a boy barely older than Ché's is now when he first arrived in the household. His brothers were much older - Eduardo by twelve years and Ernesto by fifteen. They hadn't taken much notice of their father's new "advisor". Esteban was scared to death of him. Not surprising, Lisiado thinks, remembering how gaunt - almost skeletal - he'd become in his struggle for life.

When they return to the house to change into the protective suits and begin work, Philomena informs him that she has nothing to prepare for dinner unless they want tinned beans or peanut butter sandwiches. He must take her to market, now, if you please!

"Why didn't you tell me this before?" he demands. It's an effort to control his tone. In his prime, he wouldn't have. Is he at the end of his days, to suddenly think so often of the time when he was young and strong?

"You left so quickly!" she scolds him. "The cleaning supplies were only part of what I needed."

"You can take the truck," he tells her, but Philomena shakes her head, convinced that the moment she sets foot in Culiacan, a gang of armed bravos will target her. There's no reasoning with the old woman, and finally he tells Esteban and Ché to set out stakes in the field. That will keep them occupied for at least part of the time and delay the moment when he has to try to figure out how to work the backhoe. Fortunately, Marisol is upstairs in her room listening to music loud enough that she doesn't hear about the trip she won't be making.

After a trip to the market square, Lisiado is loading the provisions into the trunk of the sedan when Philomena gasps. "It's him! It's him!" She shrinks behind Lisiado as if the menace is charging in her direction.

"Where? Point him out to me."

"Over there, by the jeep."

Lisiado leans around the trunk lid. There is a battered jeep on the far side of the plaza from them. He notices a boy, about the same age as Ché, he thinks. Beside him... "In sunglasses?" he asks her.

The old woman peeks and draws back. "No, no! Him! In the black jacket!" Marisol mentioned a black jacket, he recalls, and looks again. His guts clench in shock, and he ducks back out of sight. For a moment he can't breathe; his lungs struggle for air. His heart is pounding suddenly.

"Philomena," he wheezes. "Here are the keys. I want you to go back to the hacienda. You're safe as long as he doesn't see you."

"But, Señor Lisiado -"

"I'm going to follow him, to find out his business. If I haven't returned by this time tomorrow, take the others and go back to Guadalajara."

The sedan departs at last, and Lisiado leans against a telephone pole, learning to breathe all over again and studying the man Philomena has pointed out to him. He's tall. Self-possessed. Not swaggering, but he displays the confidence of a man who has frequently emerged unscathed from danger. Not a man to cross. He hardly looks a day older than he did on the afternoon his bullets almost claimed Lisiado's life.

The man in the black jacket is talking to his companions. The second man projects watchfulness with little shifts of attitude. He scans the area, ever-mindful of threats. Where does he fit into his? Is he one of the ones who raided the hacienda? Who are they affiliated with? The man in sunglasses cuts short whatever the tall man is saying. He and the boy walk away from the jeep, and Philomena's intruder shrugs. He goes in the opposite direction.

Once in ten years, and now twice today, thinks Lisiado with grim amusement, following at a cautious distance as the other man swiftly mounts the steps to the cathedral. (Perhaps his quarry, too, has a grave he plans to piss on?) His heart races as he pushes open the door. This time, being struck down doesn't seem like such an unlikely possibility, but by a bullet, not a thunderbolt. But as his eyes adjust to the stained glass splendor of the church, he sees the scorpion on the back of the black jacket disappearing into a confessional.

How appropriate. He has at least two dozen sins on his conscience that Lisiado can think of. Quietly, the older man strolls toward the row of booths and amends the prayer he made earlier.

"Did you wish to confess, my son?" asks a passing priest.

"No, thank you, Father, I'm just waiting for someone," answers Lisiado politely. The gun he selected for guard duty last night is tucked under his shirt, digging into the small of his back as he leans against a pew.

When the door to the confessional opens, he is not surprised to confront a pair of pistols leveled at his heart.


	7. Old Business

7. / Old Business

In his short-sleeved pullover shirt, Lisiado conceals no obvious weapons. The tall man takes this in with one glance, then his eyes meet Lisiado's and widen. "Cesar?" he says in disbelief. His astonishment shifts rapidly to a scowl. "Or should I call you 'Bucho'?"

The older man shakes his head. "I suppose it's too much to hope that you might call me brother." For the second time in his life, the devil himself has turned out to be his own flesh and blood. How is this possible? He has heard from several sources that General Marquez massacred his brother and his family.

"You're dead," says not-so-little Manito, as if trying to convince himself this isn't happening. "I shot you."

"Five times," nods his elder brother. "Twice in each lung, and my right hip as I was falling." Lisiado's breath whistles and he concentrates on each inhalation.

"I confessed it." The guns are still aimed as if he wishes to claim the death he has already done penance for.

"Maybe they will give you credit toward something else?" suggests the man called Lisiado with forced irony. He manages a smile, although lack of oxygen is beginning to make him light-headed.

They survey each other for a moment. Then, to Lisiado's relief, the younger man holsters his guns as the priest's compartment opens. "Did you wish confession?" the priest inside asks Lisiado.

"Thank you, Father, but at the moment, I am trying to reconcile with my brother." The priest raises an eyebrow - having just heard Manito's confession, he must be curious - and murmurs a blessing as he exits the booth and departs the area. "Does that make me Cain, or Abel?" he asks Manito wryly when the black cassock is out of sight.

"Cain slew Abel. But you are not dead. And Abel was a good man. I don't think the parallel applies." His brother's tone makes clear his opinion.

"A truce?" Lisiado suggests. "While we are here, at least?"

His brother studies him for a moment. Glances around the cathedral and nods shortly.

"I hope you don't mind if I sit down?" Without waiting for an answer, Lisiado lowers himself onto a pew, trying to regulate his breathing. "I heard about what happened with Marquez. I thought you were dead."

There is no trace of a smile on his brother's face as he says, "I am."

"And Carolina?"

"Remembering how hard you tried to kill her, I don't think you wish to remind me of Carolina right now."

Ouch. "How is it that you come to be in Culiacan?"

"I'm here as a favor to someone. I won't be staying long."

"Would that 'someone' be with the CIA?" asks Lisiado, and is surprised to see Manito's eyes narrow.

"Why do you ask that?"

Lisiado rises reluctantly from the pew. "There is a gun under my shirt in the back," he tells the other man. "I let you know this because I am going to take something out of my back pocket - slowly! - and hopefully without getting shot..." He produces the much-creased sheet of paper he's been carrying around. "What do you know about this woman?" he asks, unfolding the blurred fax and handing it to his brother, who scans the information, and unerringly picks out the information Lisiado would most prefer not to discuss.

"You work for the Gomez cartel?" he asks harshly.

"I've been acting as an advisor to Nestor for years, ever since my business was destroyed." This deserves a note of irony, since it was, after all, Manito who brought him down. "Nestor's doctors - and a good woman I don't deserve - kept me alive. He's in prison now, and probably won't come out again. His heir is a snake, to whom I owe nothing. Getting away...isn't as easy as it sounds."

Manito steps over to one of the niches, and touches a corner of the paper to one of the candle flames. Lisiado says nothing as Eduardo's final message goes up in smoke. "The woman is an American with no connection to the CIA. She's back in her own country, and is of no concern to the Gomezes."

"Now what?"

The musician gestures to the rows of pews. "Let's talk."

And so, for the next hour, Lisiado talks. He goes back to the beginning, to the night their mother took him, and only him in her flight from their father. Tells his brother how she wound up as the plaything of a cartelista, and how he learned the business from the inside at a young age. "One of the first things I did was help stage cockfights. That's where I got the nickname 'Bucho'."

He glosses over nothing. Finally, he reaches the present, and tells Manito about the situation with Ernesto. As long as Eduardo was there to hold the balance of power in check, all was well, but Esteban is too young, not cut out for the machinations of his family.

When he's finished, Manito is regarding him, if not with sympathy, at least with marginally less loathing. "Now I know how a priest must feel after hearing confession," says his brother. "It is very tiring. I think we should get something to eat. And there is someone I think you ought to meet."


	8. Business Lunch

8. / Business Lunch

There's a restaurant near the cathedral, and it's there that his brother leads him. The fact that Manito hasn't disarmed him doesn't relieve his concern; he remembers the blur of those spring-loaded pistols appearing in his brother's hands to cut him down. Cooperation is his best option, at least for now.

The man in sunglasses sits at a strategic table. "There you are, El. What kept you?" Silver mirrors sweep him, and Lisiado feels his stomach churning again. I'm too damned old for all this intrigue, he thinks. The second man is American, according to his accent, and consuming a plate of something so spicy that Lisiado's eyes water just from being downwind. There's a glass of lime-garnished tequila, neat, beside his plate.

"Sands, meet Lisiado. He works for the Gomez cartel, and he has information you need to hear. Tell him what you told me," Manito orders him. Lately, he's been bossed around by that young snot Ernesto, old Philomena, and now his kid brother. What next?

"What, you actually had a survivor this time? You know, El, if you keep shooting up their cathedral--"

"There were no shots fired," says his brother flatly, pulling out a chair as Lisiado shifts uncertainly.

"Sit down, sit down!" Sands waves him to a seat with a feral grin as a waitress appears to take orders from the newcomers. "So, tell me, Lisiado--you did say Lisiado? Interesting. So, what brings you here?"

Lisiado risks a glance at Manito, who regards him with nothing in his expression to tell what he's thinking. Hesitantly at first, Lisiado begins to outline the cracks beginning to appear in the Gomez organization. How Nestor, bound for prison, set his two oldest sons in charge of his operations in Guadalajara and Culiacan, and how Eduardo's murder has unleashed Ernesto's bid for power.

"I thought Ernesto was behind the raid as a way to kill Eduardo and make it look like the work of our enemies," he concludes. He meets Manito's eyes for a brief moment. "Now I don't know what to think."

Sands clears his throat.

"So, which side are you on, Lisiado? You just said 'our' enemies. You count yourself as a Gomez?"

He hasn't yet determined the balance of power here. This intense man with his fancy sunglasses makes Lisiado nervous, which is rare. How much is it safe to tell him? "My wife is Nestor's step-daughter. She is half-sister to the boys through their mother."

Sands nods. "Extended family. I'll ask you again, last chance - whose side are you on?"

"I am on whatever side will let me watch my son grow up," he answers, not letting himself look away from the reflective silver lenses, which show a neutral expression on his face. He _won't_ show fear. Who _is _this bastard, Sands?

An eyebrow crooks above the curve of the frames. "Is he in line for succession?"

"Distantly. But that's not what I want for him!" Ché isn't going to be some thug with a gun, or even a thug in a nice suit. A father's pride is evident as he speaks of his son's gift for mechanical things, how Nestor promised to educate the boy someday. Manito gazes at him, and Lisiado recalls that another of Marquez's victims was his brother's child. He stops, not wishing to rub more salt into a wound he doesn't even want to imagine.

"Meanwhile, there are still two brothers left, am I right? Ernesto, and your little friend Esteban." Sands ignores the tension between the two.

"That's right. Also Eduardo's daughter, Marisol. She's only thirteen." Esteban is twenty-two, technically old enough not to need a trustee, but he's not going to tell that to this ruthless American.

"Too young," Sands says, shaking his head. "Not a factor, except for future heirs. And your woman...what's her name?"

"Dolores, but she's not trained in the business, there's no chance of her succeeding."

"What about you?"

"Me?" he coughs. "No! Impossible." But is it? The thought sends a charge of electricity through his veins. To be in control again, knowing what he knows now...suddenly, it's a little easier to breathe. The idea is seductive. A part of himself that he's fought against, the arrogance that brought him down, has missed the power, the control...no! How can he think of such a thing? To go back to being what he was?

"Sands," Manito interrupts, looking up from his plate of rice, "why are you suggesting this?"

Sands grins at them. "Ever heard the saying, 'The devil you know is better than the devil you don't.'? Think about it, El. This guy takes charge of Culiacan, as advisor or guardian for this Esteban kid. We've got him in our pocket, and we can keep things from getting out of control."

"What makes you think you can control _him_?" demands Manito. "Are you loco?"

"Of course we'll be able to control him," says Sands, as if to a slow child. "He's going to do whatever we tell him to, because we're going to have a hostage."

"You're not making any sense," Manito dismisses him. Lisiado isn't sure this is safe; the other man may be crazy, he has a feeling. There is something...not right...about him, about this whole conversation. Lisiado feels the gun itching at the small of his back, but he doesn't dare reach to scratch it. These two are alert to his every move. This man, Sands, is _he _the leader of whatever organization has been acting against their Culiacan branch? Is Manito his Lieutenant? His enforcer? And what is he talking about, a hostage?

"Think about it, El," Sands repeats. "He talks this Ernesto into letting him and Esteban take over ops in Culiacan. It'll work, because it gets the kid brother out of the way, and then we'll have a mole inside. We can bring them down a piece at a time. It's simple," he continues, around a bite of pork. Sands points a fork at Manito. "He's not going to pull any shit if you're keeping his kid."

They both stare at Sands in shock. "Sands," growls Manito, sounding like there's a bone caught in his throat.

Lisiado thinks: Ché might be better off. Hasn't he often wished there was someone to take custody of him, to keep him away from the cartel environment completely? Although his younger brother's lifestyle still seems to be a little on the wild side...

"Hey, it'll keep you busy. Wouldn't it be fun to have a kid around? Look at Manolo. He's a useful little bastard." If Lisiado wasn't sure about what kind of man his brother was, Sands's malicious glee would scare the hell out of him.

"For how long?" demands Manito.

"As long as it takes," Sands samples another forkful of the spicy dish. "Might take a while to really put the screws to 'em. And in case you've got any funny ideas about your kid's babysitter being a nice guy, Lisiado, El Mariachi over there killed his own brother in cold blood."


	9. Clandestine Business

9. / Clandestine Business

"Is there a mens' room?" Lisiado chokes, trying to turn sudden laughter into a coughing fit. He bolts from the table and through the door to the service hallway. Making it as far as the restroom, he gives way to mirth. When the door opens behind him and Manito enters, he isn't surprised. The guitarista seems nonplused to find him leaning against the wall, helpless with hilarity.

"That man Sands - he doesn't know who I am, does he?"

"No, of course not."

"My god, it was all I could do to keep a straight face. So tell me, little brother - was your blood cold when you were shooting at me?"

"Not at all. And I wouldn't recommend laughing at Sands without explanation. He doesn't like being kept in the dark." There's a dry undertone to his brother's voice.

"Who the hell is he?"

"He's CIA," says Manito meeting his gaze with perfect solemnity.

"Not unless it stands for Certifiably Insane American." For a moment, as his brother's lips twitch, Lisiado sees the innocent kid who looked so much like his son looks now. "Take Ché," he says suddenly. "Please, Manito."

"Why?" Manito is taken aback. The look of wariness returns.

"Do you think I want him to watch me do what your friend is asking me to do? I can do it, we both know that, but I don't want him to see it. I don't want him to think it's alright. I don't want him entangled any deeper in this life than he already is. If he's with you..."

"What makes you so sure I won't destroy him?"

Despite the bitterness in his brother's words, Lisiado shakes his head. "I'm sure you have killed in cold blood often enough, but your quarrel is with me; murdering a child, even my child...no, Manito. Ché is safe with you."

"If you know what happened to Carolina and my daughter, you know that isn't true."

Lisiado chooses his words with care. "He is my life, and I trust you with that, in spite of everything that's happened between us."

"You would take him from his mother?" His brother watches him, a question in his eyes. They both have scarred souls from the war between their parents.

"If he's going to be a hostage, I'd rather he was your hostage than theirs."

"And tell him what...?"

"I tell him, 'Ché, you're going to be staying in a safe place because I don't want anything bad to happen to you like what happened to Marisol's father.' "

"Marisol was the girl in the limousine? That's ironic. We thought Eduardo liked his playmates young. That's part of what got him killed. Look, if we stay in here much longer, Sands is going to get suspicious. "

"Who is he, really? What's your part in all this?"

"That's a very long story. But when I said he was CIA, it was the truth. If you chose to involve yourself in this scheme of his, don't turn your back on him. If you don't go along with it, I suggest you get yourself and anyone you care about out of Culiacan and stay far, far away. He regards this as his territory, and he's very territorial."

"Is Sands the one behind everything?" He's not completely convinced, although Lisiado knows how inconvenient his brother's honesty can be. He wonders where the American woman fits into the story, and whether both sets of raiders who have attacked them are affiliated with Sands, but his questions will have to wait for a better time. Clearly, he is a long way from having gained his brother's confidence.

"I wouldn't cross him, Cesar." Manito shakes his head in warning. "You have no idea what he's capable of."

It's been many years since anyone except Dolores has called him by his given name, and that usually when the situation is serious. She prefers endearments: Sweetheart, Darling, Beloved... "Will you take Ché?"

His brother sighs. "Yes. I'll take him. But I won't tell you where. You'll have to stay in contact with Sands if you want to see him."

"Understood." He smiles. "Thank you."

"Don't let Sands know how happy it makes you. He lives to be difficult. After you."

They exit the men's room and return to the table where Sands is waiting for them.


	10. Deadly Business

10. / Deadly Business

The American has finished his meal. He sips his tequila, occasionally taking the lime from the rim of the tumbler and biting into it. A swallow of tequila, a nibble of fruit - he glances up, silver lenses flashing as they approach the table. "Well?" he drawls. "You two get everything straightened out?"

"I'll take the boy," Manito says in a harsh tone, without looking at Sands. "As insurance for correct behavior."

This seems to satisfy him. "Good," he says. "Now tell me, Lisiado--what are you planning to do to resurrect this operation? Because I'll tell you right now, there are certain things I'm not going to allow. For starters--"

As the alleged CIA man begins to outline his terms to Lisiado, the door to the restaurant swings inward, and in steps Esteban. Lisiado jumps to his feet, but before he can move, the sound of a gun slide being worked roots him where he stands. He waves briefly to the young man, and looks at his companions. "That's Esteban," he explains. "God knows what he's doing here, or how he found me, but that's him."

The youngest Gomez brother approaches the table, glancing from Lisiado to the unfamiliar men with him. "Is everything okay?" he asks hesitantly. "Philomena told me you needed my help."

"No, that's not what I told her," replies Lisiado with exaggerated patience. There's a buzzing in his ears, the adrenalin making his words sound distant. All he needs now is for the rest of his little flock to wander in here; Philomena would start screaming, Marisol would demand to be taken to the mean-looking American woman, and he doesn't want to imagine Sands's reaction to the sight of Ché beside his uncle. That would give everything away. "For god's sake, Esteban, go make sure they stay put!"

"What are you talking about?" Esteban looks puzzled. "Of course they're staying put, I told Philomena before I left to sit tight and I'd call her when I found you."

The buzzing becomes a shrill whine and Lisiado wants to grab the boy by the scruff of his neck and shake him. "You left them there alone? With night coming?" he roars. "Are you out of your fucking mind? I told you, we have enemies! What were you thinking?" Esteban's baby-faced bewilderment only intensifies Lisiado's anger. The rage pumping through his veins is invigorating. He's about to command the boy back to the hacienda, when Sands clears his throat.

"Were you planning to introduce us?" the American asks blandly.

Lisiado's fury ebbs enough for him to recall the gun Manito has dangling by his side, not so obvious that Esteban would notice it casually - as if the young fool has that much savvy - ready to be about the business of killing at an instant's notice. "Esteban, this is Señor Sands," he grates. "He controls Culiacan, and we will be working with him."

"Howdy," says Sands, ignoring the hand Esteban tentatively extends and gesturing to Manito. "My associate, El Mariachi."

Esteban's eyes grow even rounder, and this time, he doesn't offer his hand. He has grown up hearing tales of the deadly guitar-fighter and the terror on his face is almost comical. He fixes his gaze on Lisiado. "What are we going to tell Ernesto?"

The boy isn't completely estupido. As he's about to explain the principle. "The enemy of my enemy is my friend", his cell phone rings, and Lisiado says one of the words he tries not to use around Ché. "This really isn't a good time," he says impatiently at the sound of his wife's voice.

"But Cesar - Nestor is dead."

He goes cold suddenly. "Say that again?"

"Nestor is dead." Her voice is pitched low and he hears the stress in her tone. "No one's told me about it yet. I heard Ernesto talking to Ramirez. He said someone called him from the prison this morning."

"Jesus." He thinks quickly. "I'll call you back in a little while on your cell phone."

"I'm on my cell now, I didn't want to use the house phones in case someone listened in."

"Good girl. Sit tight, don't let him know you know." As soon as he hangs up, he looks at Esteban. "When did you last talk to Ernesto?"

"Yesterday morning, when we left to come here. What's going on, Lisiado?"

"That was Dolores. This morning, Ernesto got word that your father is dead."

"Papa...? And Ernesto didn't tell me?" Esteban looks even younger then, like a hurt child about to weep.

"That's not good," observes Sands, leaning back in his chair.

Lisiado thinks of the missing men who are out there somewhere. Are those dozen men deserters, or turncoats? Dialing his own phone, he wishes he knew. "Philomena - yes, we're both fine," he interrupts the housekeeper."Here's what I need you to do - this is no time for questions! Bring the children and meet me at - no - _no_! Don't worry about _him_, worry about _me_! Get yourselves out of the hacienda fast, do you understand? _Now_, right now! Meet me as close as you can to where we were parked earlier." He's grinding his teeth as he hangs up. "If that old woman screws this up, I guarantee she won't get any older," he growls. Esteban regards him with wide-eyed concernation. Manito's expression is hostile. Only Sands seems to be at ease.

"We've got to talk to Ernesto," says Esteban. "Maybe there's a reason he hasn't called us. Maybe Dolores is wrong, or, or - maybe it's not really Papa."

"What a fairy tale!" snaps Lisiado. He remembers what Dolores said last night about Ramirez's movements. No doubt he was busy arranging Nestor's killing. A bribe to the right inmate - or even a guard - and one sixty-eight year-old man wouldn't last an hour. "I'm going to Guadalajara - "

"I'm going with you! They're my family!"

"No, you're staying right here, you young idiot!"

Sands whistles through his fingers, a piercing sound that rings out shrilly in the nearly empty room. "Hold it!" he says sharply. "Let's have a plan here, people. Look, your friend's right, kid," says Sands emphatically before the youngest Gomez brother can contradict him. "If they haven't told you about something this big, they've already written you off. If Ernesto gets you both, he wins." The American shakes his head. "How the hell did _I_ wind up as the voice of reason? Jesus, this is a sad day."

"I'm going to go talk to Ernesto," says Lisiado grimly, "and get my wife the hell out of there. He didn't tell her, either."


	11. Hostile Business

11. / Hostile Business

"Take my cell phone number," says Sands, "and keep me posted." He rattles off the number, and Lisiado quickly enters it into his phone, as does Esteban. "You think you can handle this bastard?"

Lisiado tries to relax; the tension in his chest is beginning again. "If he wants to play ball in Culiacan, he's got to take your deal...so he'd better listen."

"That's right," says the American, looking satisfied by his answer. "Make him an offer he can't refuse."

"What are we going to do with Philomena and the children?" asks Esteban. "They'll be here soon enough."

"A hotel room for Philomena and Marisol," replies Lisiado, taking a deep breath. "Ché is going to be secured elsewhere. It's a case of not putting all our eggs in one basket," he says in answer to Esteban's puzzled look.

"See if Manolo's around anywhere," Sands tells Manito. "He'll be good for this." As the mariachi exits, Sands surveys the remanants of the Gomez operation in Culiacan. "You're going to need to do some serious recruiting," he tells them. "Lucky for you, I've been keeping tabs on the local talent. I can offer some suggestions."

"I'm sure you can," mutters Lisiado, resenting the American's interference. It's bad enough that he's right. Sands just grins.

"You need me, Señor?" interrupts the boy whom Lisiado saw with the men earlier.

"Yeah, we're gonna be entertaining Señor Lisiado's boy for a while. He's about your age. Think you're up to keeping him out of trouble?" The boy has a street-wise look; Lisiado's not sure if that's good or bad. He's probably no older than Ché, but how much of that time has been spent with the likes of Sands? Frightening to think of what his son may wind up learning, but as his father begins to realize, the promise of an education has disappeared since yesterday.

Sands fishes a packet of cigarettes out of his shirt pocket and offers them around as he takes one out. "Can't," says Lisiado shortly. "Lungs. Excuse me."

He exits El Tarantula Azul and paces like a caged cat. Through the glass in the door, he watches Sands talking to Esteban, who listens as raptly as a rabbit hypnotized by a snake. Christ, he wants a cigar right now - just a couple puffs! Failing that, he's ready to snatch the cigarette Sands is flourishing and suck it down to the filter in one drag. Fool, he scolds himself. Occasionally, he and Nestor divided a Montecristo over backgammon and drinks, but that was rare - once a month, if that.

Nestor...dead. He was a good man to work with, an amiable father-in-law. A true friendship blossomed from the ashes of their rivalry. Grief rakes Lisiado. Dolores and Ché will also miss the old man. God, what will they all do now?

Manito strolls out of the cantina and leans against the side of the building, watching him.

"What, now you're my baby-sitter?"

"I see your temper hasn't improved," comments Manito.

The last few hours have been trying. A man he loved and respected is dead. A brother he's long believed slain is alive - and despises him. "Excuse me if I'm not at my best, but I just found out I've lost a good friend. I'm worried for the lives of my wife and child. And I think I've made a deal with the devil, but what else could I do?"

"You said yourself you didn't think Gomez would come out of prison alive."

"And I never thought I'd have another chance to talk to my little brother, but here you are," he retorts, bitterness filling him. Lisiado stops, his chest constricted by emotion. Right now, I would trade three of you, Manito, to have Nestor back, he thinks, fighting pain real and remembered.

"What's wrong?"

"_Someone _shot my goddamn lungs full of holes," he rasps. "They don't always work right."

"What do you need? Is there medicine?"

"What do I need?" Lisiado mocks painfully. He fights an urge to provoke the other man - and loses. "Well, now that you ask, there's the matter of confronting Ernesto. Will you help me? I could use someone at my back."

Manito lifts an eyebrow. "Let me see if I understand this, Cesar. You want me to act as your bodyguard so you can go assume power in a cartel I've been trying to suppress. Is that what you're asking?"

"That sounded like a 'no'," his brother says with a grimace. "Forget it."

"That was a 'no'," Manito confirms. "It's one thing to keep your son safe. It's another thing to help you take over a cartel. Don't ask that of me. I wish you luck getting your woman out of there."

"It's not a question of luck. Ernesto doesn't think I know Nestor is dead. He won't be expecting me. I can offer him a deal for Culiacan. The Gomezes lost a lot of money here even before this business with Eduardo. Their distribution hub was burned to the ground. They took a huge hit in inventory. Was that you, too?"

"Last December?" His brother shakes his head. "I was here during the coup, but not for that - that was Sands and some other talent."

"The American woman, Catherine Martin?"

"I've told you," There's a hard edge to his brother's voice. "She's of no concern to the Gomezes."

Is that defensiveness he hears? "Just curious," Lisiado says mildly. His shortness of breath eases as the conversation grows more neutral. He can't relax completely, though - there are still Eduardo's dozen strays to worry about. Please, God, let Philomena make it here safely with the children... "How much of an organization does Sands have? Aside from the CIA, of course."

"If there's anything you want to know, why don't you ask Sands? He gave you his cell phone number."

"I notice you didn't."

"I don't have a cell phone," his brother says coolly. "I can't think of anyone I want to talk to that badly."


	12. Enlightening Business

12. / Enlightening Business

"So," says Manito, inspecting Ché, "this is your son? What's your name, young man?" They are standing outside El Tarantula Azul an hour later, after Esteban has sheparded Philomena and Marisol to a hotel Sands recommended. The American has departed, but young Manolo waits in the plaza across the street.

"Ché Miguel Benito Sandoval, Señor." Ché stands tall - he has a way to go before he is as tall as either of them, but he's well on his way.

A flicker of emotion crosses the other man's face too swiftly for Lisiado to read it. Yes, he thinks. Benito for _you_. "And you answer to Ché?" The boy nods, regarding the stranger with curiousity. He doesn't seem to be afraid of him, and his father watches to see how they hit it off. "You can call me 'El'."

"That's not a real name!" Ché protests, wrinkling his nose.

"I _have _been called 'El Diablo'," Manito says dramatically . He makes eye contact briefly with Lisiado to see if he gets the joke. Ché wears the skeptical expression of a ten-year old who knows he's being kidded, and Lisiado suppresses a chuckle. "Okay, okay," says the boy's long-lost uncle. "Call me George."

George? Lisiado raises an eyebrow as Ché gives his uncle a solemn handshake. Seeing them together convinces him he's doing the right thing. Ché may learn a few bad habits from Manolo and Sands, but Manito will never let him turn into a cartelista.

Lisiado places a hand on his son's shoulder. "Ché, you know I would do anything to keep you from being harmed. I want you to understand that. You're not being sent away as a punishment, or because we don't love you. Don't ever think that. We want you to be safe."

"I'm scared, Papa. I don't want you to die like Señor Eduardo." No child should have to fear such things, thinks Lisiado with regret. This is why his son must leave, before he grows to accept such concern as normal.

"Not if I can help it." He kisses the boy's forehead. "Ché, here. A little walking around money for you." As he tucks the bills into his son's shirt pocket, his fingers encounter a thick rectangle...from the embarassed look on Ché's face, it's exactly what he thinks it is. The kid has found that deck of cards...again. Oh, what the hell, let him think he's getting away with something. "You listen to...George, okay?"

"I will. Be careful." One last look, intense, too worried for such a young face. His father's heart aches. Will he ever see his son again?

As the boy makes his way across the street to the plaza, the brothers look at one another. "George?"

Manito shrugs. "Inside joke. Besides, I can't let him call me El Diablo - it would be too easy to get me confused with Sands." His brother has developed an odd sense of humor, but he's already committed to this course; Ché will be fine, surely he will.

"I'd better get going. It's a long drive to Guadalajara."

"Be careful on that mountain road, it's a killer. Some of Eduardo's men found that out the hard way Sunday morning."

Lisiado halts. "Oh? Were they in a truck, or a sedan?"

"A blue truck."

"Ah." There aren't as many unaccounted for as he thought.

"I'm not sure what happened to the ones from the sedan," his brother continues thoughtfully. "I just shot them, someone else got rid of the bodies."

Lisiado's mouth opens and closes. Manito returns his look as innocently as Ché might. He wants to bellow at his brother - has Manito any idea, any clue how worried he's been about those stray pistoleros? Chalk up another dozen corpses to his brother's total...dozens. Maybe hundreds. "I don't want to know," he says out loud, shaking his head. "I really don't."

Manito grins at him. It's not a pleasant expression. "Be careful...brother."

"I'll do my best. Thank you for taking care of Ché. At least if anything happens, he'll be with..._family_." Taking a deep breath, the advisor heads for the jeep, not looking back. If he survives the confrontation with Ernesto, perhaps then he can begin to rewrite the Cain and Abel tale they are emeshed in.

Once he's on the road, Lisiado calls Dolores, his anxiety lessening slightly when she answers the phone. "What's happening there?" he asks.

"Ernesto and Ramirez have been in Nestor's office all afternoon. The men are having a drunken party in the pool house. They've been shooting guns off and playing loud music - I'm not even sure if anyone is on guard tonight."

"Stay inside, zamira mia," he cautions her. "Don't take any chances. I'm on my way there now to talk to Ernesto."

"But - Cesar - !"

"While you're waiting, pack what you want to take away with you. You'll be coming back with me. Try not to let them see you. And Dolores - don't forget Ché's robots."


	13. Surreptitious Business

13. / Surreptitious Business

It's nearly midnight when Lisiado parks his vehicle well away from the main house and makes certain it's concealed and aimed for a fast departure. He checks the rounds in his gun as he cautiously approaches the house. Distant laughing and splashing come from the pool area; the party is still going on, by the sound of it.

The kitchen door is unlocked, and he enters quietly. Their wing is on the south side of the house, past the laundry area and sewing room. When he reaches his bedroom door, he finds it locked. He raps lightly against the wood with his knuckes. A touch on his shoulder makes him jump; he lowers the gun, heart pounding.

Dolores gives him a reproachful look. "I was in Ché's room," she whispers. "I didn't want to leave the door open in case one of _them _came in and saw all the luggage."

"There'd better not be too much," he warns as she jiggles the key in the knob. "I've only got a jeep, and it's not safe to make too many trips back and forth to the car."

She has a thermos of black coffee - hot and sweet - and a plateful of sandwiches waiting for him in the denuded bedroom. The leopard print sheets are gone, the bed is bare, and he wonders - but doesn't ask - what happened to the orchids.

"This is wonderful, thank you," he says through a mouthful of ham and cheese, realizing for the first time how hungry he is. It's been a long time since those tacos with Esteban - it's been a hell of a long day all the way around, come to think of it...he's been awake since four in the morning.

There are several black garbage bags in addition to luggage. They move the suitcases first. On the last trip with the trash bags, one of the night patrol catches Dolores. Lisiado waits at the jeep beyond a stand of oleanders, tensely fingering his gun as his wife chats with the man - who's obviously had a few drinks.

"I've been cleaning out Ché's room while he's gone," she explains, holding up the black plastic sack. "You know how it is with boys, they save every gum wrapper, so this is the perfect chance to get rid of all that junk he's had cluttering up the place."

As the man stumbles closer, Lisiado takes aim. He doesn't want to shoot the poor slob and bring down half the compound - or will it? Dolores said that they were firing guns off earlier. They may take it as more drunken exuberence. He's certainly not going to stand here and let this oaf molest his wife.

"You can come over and clean my room next," the man laughs. If he sets one paw on Dolores, he's a dead man, vows her husband.

"Not tonight," she says firmly. "I'm too tired."

"Me too," he yawns, staggering away. "I'm gonna find some place to take a nap."

Lisiado takes a deep breath, dropping the gun's muzzle at the ground and watching the guard's unsteady progress as Dolores stows the last of their possessions in the jeep. A nap? Lucky bastard. Nearing fifty, he tries to avoid twenty-hour days, and the five-hour drive from Culiacan hasn't helped. The strong coffee has numbed some of the fatigue, but he's thoroughly grimy and smells like a goat.

"I'm going to take a shower before I talk to Ernesto," he decides once they're safely back in the bedroom, hoping that will revive him further. He discards his gamy clothes, and to his pleasure, Dolores joins him in the shower. The body wash is called "Rainforest", a relaxing scent, not too floral. He enjoys the sensation as his wife scrubs him. "Dolores, you're the best thing that ever happened to me," he murmurs as the dark green shower puff makes brisk circles against his ribs.

"I know," she agrees, and her free hand reaches out to rouse him. She's very good at it, and this time, Lisiado's heavy breathing has nothing to do with old bullet wounds. He closes his eyes; the ferns on the shower curtain vanish as he revels in the pleasure she's granting him. He shouldn't...really shouldn't...so tired...

"What are you doing? We don't have time -" he protests half-heartedly - but stops as she bends down to reinforce her caress with a kiss that lingers. Time, no time, no time for - maybe just a few minutes...?

"I know," she says again, straightening up, leaving him wanting more. "But this way, you'll be a little meaner, won't you?" He growls at her and she smiles back wickedly. "And then later..." she teases.

If there _is_ a later, he thinks grimly. If it wasn't just him against them...

"Don't worry, my love," says Dolores, as if she can read his mind, leaning close so that her full breasts press against his chest. "Remember, you were doing what Ernesto is trying to do when he was younger than Esteban is now." That's true. He recalls a favorite saying of Nestor's: Age and treachery can easily defeat youth and strength.

Damn, his wife is beautiful. Even with her hair hanging in wet ropes around her face - there's a gleam in her brown eyes and her lips curve deliciously as she smiles encouragement at Lisiado. What the hell. He kisses her, pressing her against the tile of the enclosure as the warm water beats against their naked bodies. His mouth plunders hers until she moans. Her slick body squirms, trying to tempt him - then he stops deliberately.

"Until later," he says with an evil grin and is rewarded as she makes a frustrated wail like a cat in heat. A few minutes later, dressing in surplus clothing, he watches her toweling her hair and wishes he had the time and energy to satisfy them both properly. At his age, after the day he's had, he'd be out cold in the aftermath. Someone would find the jeep - he'd wind up being awakened and hauled in front of Ernesto stark naked. No, passion will have to wait.

"Listen," he instructs Dolores. "I want you to wait fifteen minutes after I go into the library. No more. If I haven't made it out in that time, get yourself to Culiacan. Here's my cell phone. There's a number programmed in there for a man named Sands. Tell him what's happened to me."

"Don't talk this way!" she says, distressed.

"If worse comes to worse, tell Esteban to keep to the deal with Sands. Understand?" She nods silently, her forehead marred by worried creases. "Ché is safe. You'll have to contact Sands to talk to him. That's part of the deal."

"What?" She's aghast, outraged. "Cesar! Who is this 'Sands'?"

Oh, to have the answer to that question!

"I want Ché safe and away from this whole dirty business!" he says curtly, cutting off her protests. "Isn't his safety the most important thing?" Before today, its been years since he's spoken so vehemently to her or anyone else. Many years. The past is catching up to him; in one day he's gone from comfortable middle-age back to childhood, and now he's revisiting the years when he was strongest, the out-of-control years he's lamented for so long.

"We're going to discuss this later," Dolores responds, a set line to her lips, and he knows he hasn't heard the last of the subject. Well, if she hadn't been wild, with a stubborn streak, she'd never have defied Nestor and taken up with him to begin with. If she wasn't so protective, they wouldn't be having this discussion because he'd be long dead.

"Later," he agrees, smiling, hoping to remind her that that's not _all_ they'll be doing later.

"Sooner than _that_," she promises, but her lips fight a little grin of their own.

"Remember, fifteen minutes," he says. "If it takes less time than that, or if it goes badly, you need to be in place."

"Okay, give me a minute to get dressed and I'll go right out there." She gestures to the clothes she's laid out on the stripped bed, and he nods.

"I'll see you soon." Lisiado presses a quick kiss upon her forehead and exits the bedroom before his nerve fails him. I can do this, he tells himself sternly as he strides through the big house toward Nestor's library at the north end. Surely this is the longest walk he's ever taken... He breathes as deeply as his much-mended lungs allow. If only Manito were here to guard his back...


	14. Family Business

14. / Family Business

"Good evening, Ernesto," Lisiado greets the eldest Gomez brother as he swaggers into the office. "Ramirez. I hear condolences are in order. I'm very sorry to hear about your father."

Momentarily startled by his sudden appearence, Ernesto glares at him. "What the hell are you doing here, Lisiado?" he demands. "I haven't summoned you."

Summoned him. As if he's an unruly pet dog. Without asking, the advisor reaches into the humidor on the desk and helps himself to one of Nestor's excellant Montecristos. He reaches for the paraphernalia and trims it as he smiles at Nestor's back-stabbing heir. With a mental apology to the late patriarch, he takes one of the old-fashioned wooden matches from their lidded box and strikes it against the edge of the fine mahogany desk.

"We need to talk," he says, drawing carefully on the cigar. Even if he doesn't actually smoke it - he's out of the habit, he realizes as his head spins - it smells wonderful.

"And you barged in here at this hour to tell me _what_?"

"Esteban and I are going to be taking over the Culiacan operation," Lisiado says calmly. Shouldn't his lungs be shrinking, shouldn't he be gasping? Why this sudden rush of well-being, of omnipotence? "Don't expect us to pay tribute. It's a shambles; it'll be years before there's any kind of profit."

"He's loco," Ramirez says to Ernesto, who merely stares at him in disbelief.

"Why shouldn't I just shoot you?" asks Gomez, watching him as he assays another puff. "_And _that little pest Esteban?"

Lisiado smiles patronizingly to cover up what he's just realized: he doesn't have his gun. It's lying under the pile of clothes he discarded for the shower. Age and treachery, he reminds himself. Not guns, _brains_. His skin tingles with the surge of power he feels. Ernesto is a callow lad compared to him. "It would not be in your best interests. You want Guadalajara, fine. Culiacan is ours now."

"Listen, Lisiado -" snaps Ramirez. "You don't know how short your time is." His gun is out and aimed at the older man, but Lisiado disregards him, locking his gaze with Ernesto. I don't need a gun for this, thinks the elder man. I know things he doesn't; I _am _older and wiser. At the crack of a gunshot, he braces himself - he's miscalculated - but it's Gordo Ramirez who makes a gasping sound as blood blossoms from his torso. Ernesto's second-in-command topples to the floor, gun clattering to rest beside him.

With a hot surge of joy, Lisiado knows his little brother has changed his mind. Manito is looking out for him. As soon as Lisiado realizes he hasn't been shot, his eyes target Ernesto Gomez, who's still gawping at the sight of his fallen lieutenant. "What, surely you didn't think I came back here all alone, did you? If you kill me," Lisiado says conversationally, "you'll have nothing but trouble in Culiacan. They killed Barillo and they've hurt us twice. You don't even know who they are - but I do."

"Bullshit. You're bluffing!" One of Ernesto's hands has gone below the level of the desk, and Lisiado's pulse thunders as another shot rings out. This one blows a hole in the padding of Ernesto's chair. Gomez jumps back, chair wheels scraping the hardwood floor. Lisiado can see both of his hands, empty.

"I've made contact with our adversaries in Culiacan, and I've made a deal with them, contingent on me advising your brother. What, you thought Nestor kept me around just to have someone to play backgammon with? You forget; I know this business."

Under the guise of reaching for an ashtray - he can't bring himself to tap ash onto Nestor's prized Persian rug - he glances toward the open French doors. Moonlight glints off metal and a dark figure lurks beyond the glow of light from the room. "Besides, you'll have your hands full here," Lisiado continues with assurance.

"In just a few days, you've lost most of your major assets - Eduardo, Ramirez, your father and me. Of course, you only counted your father as an obstacle to you taking power, and me as a mere crony of his, but between the two of us, we shared more years of business experience than you've been alive. Now?" He shrugs. Puffs. "It's just you and a bunch of drunken louts who, you'll notice, haven't come running to see if you need help."

He walks over to the gun on the floor and retrieves it. Ernesto is as pale facing him as Esteban was confronting a house full of corpses. "Lisiado, for god's sake!" Ernesto croaks. "You're married to my sister, that makes you family. You can't kill me!"

"I could," he chides, and there was a time when he would have, without a second thought. The argument that he's family is spurious - no, what sways him is the potential for a disastrously unqualified successor who won't co-operate with his agenda. Perhaps, at some point in the future, they can work together, regardless of their animosity. Or he can set that mad American Sands on him, which could be amusing to watch.

"Make no mistake about it, Ernesto, I could kill you with no more regret than you feel for killing your father. Probably less. But I don't want all this." He indicates the office. "Culiacan will be a far more interesting challenge for me." He takes a step toward the French doors. "Oh, and Ernesto? My name is Cesar. Remember that in the future." The new head of the Gomez cartel operations in Culiacan exits the library that once belonged to Nestor Gomez with a last glance at the backgammon table by the window. An era of relative peace in his life has just ended.

Cesar strides across the patio and a stretch of lawn to Manito. As he draws closer, he discovers that the figure dressed in black is familiar, but not his brother.

"Dolores?" he whispers as she plucks the remains of the Montecristo from his hand.

"Those are very bad for your lungs!" she says severely, throwing it down into the dewy grass. Then her gun comes up again. He turns to see Ernesto's form standing in the doorway, aiming the gun he must've had in his desk drawer. Dolores shoots. The figure ducks or falls back - Cesar doesn't know or care which. "I think it's time to go," she says to him, and he nods.

"You left your gun under your clothes," she says as they hurry toward the jeep. "It's a good thing I threw them in the dirty clothes hamper!"

"Who do you think is going to do that laundry when we're gone?" he teases her - and feels the sobering thud of a bad situation avoided by inches. If it wasn't for Dolores... He owes her his life again.

A shadow to one side of the path moves. "You see, you didn't need me at your back after all," says the man he just gave up on. He knocks his wife's arm up as she's about to shoot at the unexpected - and to her, unfamiliar - voice.

"It's alright, zamira mia - he's on our side."

"More or less," Manito answers. "You go ahead. I'm going to go see how many Gomezes we're down to." There's a stealthy rustling among the foliage, and a moment later, a tall figure approaches the French doors and enters the library.

"Who was that?" demands Dolores as her husband hustles her toward the jeep.

There's an introduction he hopes to avoid for as long as possible. Either she'll recognize Manito as the man who shot him - which would bother her a great deal more than it does Lisiado - or she'll see the family resemblence to Ché and spill the beans to one and all. "One of our new associates from Culiacan. His name is George."

"I'll drive," Dolores announces as they reach the vehicle. "You rest. You look tired."

"Did you remember any of your little lace goodies?" he asks, relaxing in the passenger seat as his wife speeds away from Guadalajara.

"Of course, my love. I brought everything that makes us happy. I brought Ché's robots, and the nighties you like to see me wear, and I hope some of my orchids survive in those bags." She pats him on the arm. "We'll have wherever we end up sleeping looking like our bedroom in no time."

He contemplates his return to the Brazilian bordello. Ah, well. There are worse fates. "Dolores, my songbird - zamira mia..."

"Yes, my darling Cesar?"

"Have I told you lately how very much I love you?"

**Epilogue: **

Friday morning

Daylight creeps past the green motel draperies as Dolores lies in bed, cradling her husband's body. She traces the scar tissue on his ribcage, old white splotches paler than the rest of his tawny skin. His linen shirt, torn off in the heat of passion hours ago, is crumpled at the foot of the bed. He snores loudly.

She may be 'only' a wife and mother, but she will always protect the ones she loves. Cesar occasionally neglects her in his absorption with business, but she knows ways to get his attention, how to keep him coming back to her and only her. His intimate smiles still melt her heart. Watching him sleep, his breath rasping, she marvels at how strong he is to have survived so much. Her long hair brushes his cheek, tickling his face. He snorts it away. Dolores looks at the clock. He's had a good long rest, and now it's time to discuss the future with her husband.

Purposefully, she extends a skilled hand to awaken him with one of the techniques she knows will get his attention. It's time for that talk about their son...

THE END

* * *

Author's note: Special thanks to Dawnie-7 for staying with me and reviewing faithfully. I realize that the relative lack of Sands in this tale diminished its readership, but I really wanted to explore some of the unanswered questions left by "Desperado", such as why El didn't know 'Bucho' was his brother and how they became estranged. 

I DO have more ideas coalescing for Sands, El and Kate (Wow, is she going to be in for a surprise...). Cesar, Dolores and Che will also appear from time to time...and we haven't seen the last of Marisol or the surviving Gomez...es? either.

Mexico isn't through with me yet...


End file.
